by Kamala Nair
They spoke for only a few minutes. Prem kissed Amma on the mouth—a long kiss. I had never seen anyone kiss like that, except in movies that I wasn’t supposed to see. Sometimes back at home, Aba kissed Amma in front of me, but it was always brief, and then Amma would turn scarlet, push him away, and say: “Vikram, not in front of Rakhee.”
After a while Amma broke away from Prem, and ran back toward the house. I remained huddled in the corner, cloaked in shadows.
Chapter 9
Nalini Aunty was eagerly listening to Murthy, the mailman, perched atop his rusty bicycle, conversing enthusiastically in between sips from the metal tumbler of lime juice, which she had carried out to him. It had stopped raining and I was sitting alone on the damp top step.
“Really, Murthy?” Nalini Aunty’s eyes were so wide with curiosity they practically bulged from their sockets, “Is Thara Thomas’s husband really divorcing her? She was only one year senior to me in school—I still remember the wedding. Tut, tut, what a shame.”
Murthy was the best source of village gossip, abusing his job by opening and reading everyone else’s mail before making his weekly deliveries. His possession of coveted information allowed him to move freely from house to house, accepting tea and sweets, and sometimes whiskey, in exchange for the latest news. Nobody ever dared offend Murthy, and most people buttered him up in the hopes that he would keep their own precious skeletons locked up in their closets, safe and sound where they belonged.
He was short and rail thin, with a dark complexion smooth and shiny as polished wood, an elaborate mustache, and a mischievous yellow grin.
“Yes, and this is only between us,” Murthy continued, leaning toward Nalini Aunty and whispering conspiratorially into her ear, “but they say she was in the habit of taking drinks, and that is why he is asking for the divorce.”
“No!” Nalini Aunty gasped, her face a mix of shock and thinly veiled glee. “I always suspected there was something off about that Thara. Poor woman, though, so sad, really. Her life is over.”
“Are you through with all this silly talk?” Sadhana Aunty had appeared outside, her hands balanced on her hips, and her mouth pressed into a frown.
“Oh, Murthy was just telling me—” began Nalini Aunty, but Sadhana Aunty silenced her.
“Nalini, you forget yourself. I don’t care to hear of it. Now, Murthy, if you have delivered whatever you were meant to deliver, please go. You are no longer welcome.”
Murthy drew himself up with a haughty air and tossed a packet of envelopes onto the front step, where they landed in a heap at Sadhana Aunty’s feet. Her frown stiffened and she eyed the letters in distaste.
“There you are—it looks like that Sardarji brother-inlaw of yours wants your sister back, God only knows why. She’s nothing but trouble, that girl.” Murthy shook his head from side to side, then pedaled briskly away, the wheels of his bicycle kicking back swirls of dust.
Even though I was mad at Amma, Murthy’s words made my blood boil and I glared after him.
Nalini Aunty reached out for the letters, but Sadhana Aunty swept up the pile and began to shuffle through it.
“Rakhee, your father has written a letter to you also,” Sadhana Aunty said. She handed me a white envelope with my name printed across it in Aba’s familiar reassuring scrawl.
“Can I bring Amma her letter, too?”
Sadhana Aunty paused and looked at me with a glint of distrust. To my surprise, she handed me another envelope. “Very well, but bring it to her at once. Do not loiter.”
I carried the letters into the house and found Amma sitting on her bed. A book lay unopened in front of her and she was examining her knees. She looked as if she had not yet bathed even though it was late in the afternoon; her hair was greasy and unkempt. She had closed the curtains and a patch of light, dull and unflattering as dirty dishwater, squeezed through an opening and fell across her weary face.
“Letter from Aba,” I said casually, and dropped it in her lap.
I wanted to wait and watch her read it, but as if sensing my intentions she said: “Thank you, molay, now run along.”
I meant to obey, but I found that when I tried, I could not move from the spot. My mind kept replaying the scene I had witnessed the night before between Amma and Prem, how she had actually allowed that man to kiss her. The words seemed to spill out of their own accord, harsh and accusatory even to my own ears:
“You were never planning on going back to Aba, were you?”
“Rakhee.” She stared at me with wide, blank eyes. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s true, isn’t it? And you know what I think about that, Amma? It’s stupid. Look how sad you are here. If we could just go back home, I know it would all be okay and that you could be happy again.”
Amma had been watching me speak in silence, but then her face changed and she spoke, spitting out the words: “Happy! When have I been happy? What do you know of my happiness?”
I stumbled back, startled by the bitter tone of her voice.
Amma covered her face with her hands and let out an anguished moan. Then she began to rub her temples with quick, manic strokes. After a few moments, she became still again, and sighed deeply. Her voice was hoarse.
“I’m sorry, molay, I don’t know what I’m saying. Forgive me, I am not well right now. We shouldn’t be discussing this. Why don’t you leave me be for a while. I must rest.”
I went back to my room and sat on the edge of the bed, overcome. Part of me was furious at Amma, but the other part still loved her, wanted to put my arms around her neck and protect her. I couldn’t give up so easily. I needed to make Amma see reason.
A long time passed before I remembered the letter I was still holding in my hands. It was even more crumpled than before, and I realized I had been squeezing the paper in my fists. I smoothed it out and began to imagine Aba speaking to me, his familiar voice a balm to my injured soul.
My dear Rakhee,
How are you? I hope you’re enjoying yourself.
I’m keeping fine, but I do miss you. I have been busy at work so I don’t have much time to feel lonely. I think I might be on the verge of a really exciting discovery at the lab—I’ll tell you all about it when you get back.
Veena Aunty has been bringing food over once a week so I’m not starving to death, and she is almost as good a cook as your mother.
How is everything over there? Have you been settling in all right? How is your mother? Please let me know if you feel worried about anything at all.
It will be good to have you home again. Merlin says “hi” and that he misses you too (he sleeps on your bed every night).
Love, Aba
His words were simple, strong, unsentimental. I could almost feel Aba’s hand on my shoulder and his wise, handsome face lost in thought, the way it was when he helped me with my science homework: Well, this is quite a quandary, isn’t it? But don’t worry, there’s always a solution, Rakhee. There’s always a way out.
I held the letter in my hands, rubbing my fingers across the paper. In a flood of emotion, I brought it to my face and inhaled deeply, the way Muthashi did when she embraced me. It smelled clean and fresh, like home.
Early the next morning, just as I began to rouse myself from the depths of sleep, I heard my bedroom door creak open and soft footsteps padding across the floor toward me. I shut my eyes and pressed my arms against my side, stiff and alert as a soldier.
“Are you awake?” It was Amma.
I opened my eyes.
“Me too,” she said. “I can’t sleep.” She pulled the sheet back, crawled into bed next to me, and held me close. I felt her tear-stained cheek pressed against mine, and her hot breath in my ear.
“Please forgive me, molay. I’m sorry for shouting at you yesterday. I wasn’t myself. You know how much I love you, don’t you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Oh, you’re still mad at me. I don’t blame you. I’ve been awful, haven’t
I? Let me make it up to you—why don’t we hire a car and drive into town today for ice cream? Meenu and Krishna can come along, too—would you like that?”
“I guess so.” The idea of getting away for a few hours seemed too appealing to pass up.
My cousins were giddy at breakfast.
“Why are you not smiling, Rakhee? We are going for ice cream. Sweet, delicious ice cream!” said Meenu.
Gitanjali, who was joining us on our excursion, had dressed up in a fancy blue salwar kameez, and I detected a hint of unnatural red rubbed onto her lips.
“Why are you dressed like that? One of your simple cotton saris will do well enough for a trip into town,” said Sadhana Aunty, glancing up from her cup.
Gitanjali ignored her mother and sat down. “Fine, I’ll change after breakfast,” she said.
Amma entered the dining room, wearing a pale green sari with her hair in a glamorous bun.
“Is Muthashi coming with us?” I asked her.
“No, I’m afraid not. She’s getting too old to handle these long drives, especially in this heat,” she said. “Is everyone ready?”
Muthashi stood up eagerly from her place at the head of the table.
Amma and Sadhana Aunty exchanged looks.
“But, you’re staying here, at home, with Sadhana Chechi,” said Amma in a soothing tone.
“Yes, I need you here with me today,” added Sadhana Aunty, standing up and moving toward Muthashi.
“But I want to go. Why can’t I go?” Muthashi’s voice cracked. Again, she reminded me of a child.
“It’s too far,” said Amma. “You’ll get tired.”
“No, I will not. I’m going to go. I want to go! Let me fetch my shawl.” Muthashi shuffled out of the room.
“You’d better all hurry up and leave,” said Sadhana Aunty with a sigh. “Gitanjali, there’s no time to change now—just go as you are.”
“But what about Muthashi?” Krishna said.
“Don’t worry about Muthashi. Come.” Amma herded us out the door.
At the bottom of the front steps, a black car was waiting on the road, and the driver leaned against the door with his back to us, whistling a tune. When he heard us approaching he turned around and I saw that it was not a driver, it was Prem.
I grabbed Amma’s arm. “What’s he doing here?”
“Rakhee, stop being rude. Prem Uncle has kindly offered to drive us,” Amma said in a low voice, and shot me a warning glance.
“Everybody in,” said Prem, pretending he hadn’t heard this exchange, and my cousins happily piled into the backseat. I squeezed in beside Krishna.
Before I could further indulge my anger by slamming the door, I heard Muthashi’s frail voice.
“Come back,” she called. “No!”
We all turned to see her struggling down the steps toward the car. “Wait!” she cried. “I want to go.”
Before she could reach the bottom step, Sadhana Aunty caught up, looped a firm arm around her waist, and pulled her back. “Go, go now,” she said, waving her free hand at us.
“You’d better start the car, Prem,” Amma said in a soft voice.
“No, wait for me!” I heard Muthashi wail as we drove off. I turned around and through the back window I saw her standing, a pathetic figure in white. I watched her until we turned the corner and she disappeared.
We drove in silence. I stared out the window and watched an auto rickshaw holding two sari-clad women whip in front of our car at top speed and careen around a corner.
Finally, Gitanjali spoke: “Thank you for driving us, Prem Uncle.”
“You’re very welcome,” Prem said. “It gives me a chance to get out for a day. You know, it’s been years since I’ve been back here, and after the madness of Trivandrum, the slow village life can be a bit too much to take in long stretches.”
“Trivandrum? What’s there to do in Trivandrum?” asked Meenu, leaning forward and resting her chin on the front seat.
“I teach English at a college there.”
“Prem is a very talented poet,” said Amma.
Meenu, who seemed bored by this response, reclined and began twiddling her thumbs.
But now I was curious. “Why did you come back here then? Especially if you like big cities?”
“Well…” Prem paused for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said with his usual confidence, “My parents are getting old and I’m their only child. It’s my duty to come back and see them from time to time.”
“How are your parents doing?” said Amma. “I feel terrible. I’ve been so wrapped up in things at Ashoka that I still haven’t had time to pay them a visit.” Amma’s tone rang false to me—I knew she had not been busy—and it must have sounded so to Prem as well.
“They are doing fine—though getting old and a bit lonely. They would love to see you. Why don’t we stop by on our way back from town?”
Amma did not answer him. Instead she turned around and gave me a smile. “Rakhee, did you know Prem’s father used to work with Muthashan at the hospital?”
“Yes, and they were the best of friends,” Prem added. “So, it’s settled, then, we’ll visit them later this afternoon.”
Amma opened her mouth as if to protest, but then closed it again and began to stare out the window.
When we arrived in town Prem let us out in front of a dress shop while he parked the car. An excess of stalls crowded the streets, which were clogged with mustachioed men and women swathed in bright saris and salwar kameez, their shiny black hair wound into pendulous braids that emanated the pungent scent of coconut oil.
“Let me just browse until Prem returns,” said Amma. We followed Amma into the shop, and I marveled at the stacks and stacks of neatly folded fabrics in brilliant hues and various textures. The man and woman behind the counter who had been conversing casually leaped to attention when they saw Amma.
“Hello, madam, how may we help you?” said the man in exaggerated, saccharine English.
Amma sat down in a chair the woman offered her and waved away the tumbler of lime juice she held out on a tray.
The man immediately began pulling out the bolts of fabric from the shelf, one by one, with the verve of a magician, destroying his carefully organized stacks. He spread them out one after the other on the counter for Amma to peruse.
“I’m going to get married in this,” said Meenu, picking up a gaudy magenta-and-gold-bordered sari and wrapping it around her head with a flourish.
“If anyone even marries you at all,” said Krishna.
Meenu dropped the cloth back onto the counter and went after Krishna, who let out a peal of laughter and began a game of dodging her irate sister.
While my cousins were thus occupied, I glanced out the shop window and saw Gitanjali standing outside talking with a boy. He was thin and well groomed, with a shy face and a shadow of a mustache on his upper lip; he was carrying a couple of books under one arm. I had never seen Gitanjali so animated before and wondered who he might be. She abruptly ended the conversation when Prem rounded the corner, then ducked into the store and began fingering one of the saris as if she had been there the entire time.
“Ready for ice cream?” Prem approached the counter and put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged away from him and went to stand beside Amma, who was pulling a wad of rupees from her purse. The shopkeeper wrapped her purchase—a simple white sari with a wide gold border—in a plastic cover.
“This is a typical Kerala-style sari,” Amma told me.
“It will look beautiful on you,” said Prem, and while Amma did not look up or thank him, I saw her smile.
On the way home, after we had filled our bellies with ice cream, we stopped by Prem’s parents’ house.
“Why do I have to go? Can’t you just drop me off at Ashoka first?” I grumbled to Amma. She gave my ear a pinch and told me I had better be polite.
Prem parked the car on the road at the bottom of a hill not far from Ashoka, and we had to climb up a steep, wooded in
cline to reach the house.
“This is it,” he said, when we made it to the top.
Prem’s parents’ house was small and shrouded in gangly trees. A thunderous bark erupted from a cage at the side of the house as we approached. A fierce-looking German shepherd bared his teeth at me through the bars.
“Quiet, Striker, quiet. These are friends,” said Prem, and the dog, hearing his master’s voice, flattened himself at the bottom of the cage and began to pant. Out of nowhere, a white-haired woman appeared and began to rattle a ring of keys in front of the dog’s cage.
“Look, it’s crazy Hema,” Krishna whispered, nudging me.
Hema, with faded white widow’s cotton wrapped around her shriveled frame and disheveled hair, shook the keys and made cooing sounds to the dog, as if it were a baby.
Prem’s parents, roused by the commotion, came out onto the verandah. His father was tall and solemn, with a full head of gray hair and thick, Coke-bottle glasses. Although he looked as if he had once been a sturdy, handsome man, he now leaned heavily on a cane and his skin sagged on his frail bones. Prem’s mother was short—about the same height as me, but rotund. She had curly gray hair with ragged bald patches the size of postage stamps spread across her scalp, and eyes blued and cloudy with cataracts.
“Hema, that’s enough. Leave the dog be,” said Prem in a firm but kind voice. Hema turned to examine us with unfocused eyes and muttered something under her breath.
“You can go now, Hema,” Prem said. “Thank you.”
Hema continued to stare with that vague, soft look in her eyes until Prem’s father cleared his throat loudly and Hema slunk away behind the house.
Krishna and I exchanged looks.
Amma went over to Prem’s parents as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, and bent down low to touch their feet.
“Uncle. Aunty,” she said.
They each in turn put their arms around her and embraced her, like a prodigal daughter.